


Will Endure

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Book: The World of Ice and Fire, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Drama, Gen, House Stark, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 06:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: "The Kings of Winter never die, say the smallfolk. The Kings of Winter only grow as old as they can until the night, and then come morning they turn young again. But they are always there, with their greatsword and their direwolf. The Stark kings are as eternal as their stronghold Winterfell."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I could not wait for the _She-Wolves of Winterfell_ for House Stark feelings, so. Ahem.

_"The winters are hard. But the Starks will endure. We always have."_  
_\- Eddard I, A Game of Thrones_

***

**HOUSE STARK shortly before the Targaryen Conquest**

KING TORRHEN, of House Stark, the King in the North

QUEEN SANSA, of House Manderly, cousin and queen to Torrhen, the daughter of Princess Arsa Stark and Lord Wylfryd Manderly

PRINCE BRANDON, of House Stark, the Prince of Winterfell, firstborn of King Torrhen and Queen Sansa, a man of three-and-twenty  
\- his princess consort BARBREY, of House Hornwood  
\- their son PRINCE CREGARD, of House Stark, a babe of one

PRINCE BARTHOGAN, of House Stark, second child of King Torrhen and Queen Sansa, a man of twenty  
\- betrothed to Lady Jeyne, of House Karstark

PRINCE JONNEL, of House Stark, third child of King Torrhen and Queen Sansa, a man of seventeen

PRINCESS LYANNA, of House Stark, youngest child of King Torrhen and Queen Sansa, a maid of fifteen

BRANDON SNOW, adviser to the king, the younger bastard brother of King Torrhen  
\- his mother AREGELLE SNOW, called LADY AREGELLE out of courtesy, the daughter of a Stark prince with a candlemaker

KING ARTOS III, of House Stark, deceased, father of King Torrhen and Brandon Snow

DOWAGER QUEEN JONELLE, of House Glover, mother of King Torrhen, rode south for a winter raid on the tenth year of Torrhen's life, never to return

PRINCESS ARSA, of House Stark, Lady of White Harbor, older sister of King Artos, architect of the match between Torrhen and her daughter Sansa

*

It seemed like Lyanna was growing up to be an unremarkable princess.

Her stitches were worse than the wiry silver hairs escaping from Lady Aregelle’s braid. Her songs could best be described as plain and tedious enough that they had put listeners into a drowse more than once. She had no patience for the harp, had even less patience for dancing, and would rather stay in her chambers and paint her ladies’ faces with rose pigments. Lyanna also felt nauseous with nerves at the prospect of entertaining guests in the Great Hall. She was only an adequate rider, a hopeless hunter, and would only hold a knife to skin a boar if she also got to complain about the smell and the filth and the fuss.

Unremarkable people never inspired songs, Lyanna would often reflect, as she squatted in the yard and drew shapes in the snowy mud with a stick.

It would be very sad indeed if everyone now alive in the family, even old Lady Aregelle, would inspire songs – all of them, except for Lyanna.

But Lyanna loved songs even though she sounded like a wheezing horse when she sang. She knew all the songs about House Stark. There were plenty of them. Her father King Torrhen had said that you could not sing about the North without singing about House Stark. And even the southron kingdoms did sing of the North, especially near the coming of every winter.

 

**I.**

On the morning of Father’s departure, when he rode south to defend their kingdom against the invaders, Mother put aside her sewing and took Lyanna to the godswood.

The icy breeze stirred the red leaves of the weirwood and Lyanna’s loose hair. She huffed and puffed and brushed aside her hair from her face. Mother glanced at her with a frown. Mother was a very neat and elegant queen: her dark hair was always bundled inside a net made of silver and pearls. 

“Let us pray to the old gods,” Mother said, in her gentle way, “for your father and brothers to come home to us.”

Though she was from House Manderly, Mother kept to the old gods, the gods of her own mother the Princess Arsa Stark. 

Lyanna had always thought of Mother as a soft-spoken queen, rather like the quiet and steady falling of snow on a brilliant morning. Mother, meanwhile, often despaired of Lyanna’s lack of initiative to hold a knife and skin a game.

“How can a Stark princess not know how to skin a prey?” Mother had asked one horrible afternoon. Mother had looked as disapproving as she had been that time Lyanna could not properly enunciate the letter R as a very young child, or that time Lyanna had stuttered her way during Lord and Lady Umber’s visit and accidentally said, “Very pie to meet you.”

Father and Uncle Brandon and the rest of the hunting party had been standing around the oaken stump with the dead boar whilst Mother had loomed over Lyanna. 

And Lyanna, gingerly holding the knife, had mulishly replied, “I hate the smell. Smells like turd. Hate skinning turd.”

Uncle Brandon had thrown back his head and howled with laughter. Father had only shaken his head and said that Lyanna was still a child.

Mother had frowned, but when she had glanced over to see Uncle Brandon still sniggering she regarded Lyanna again. Mother’s brow had been smooth. 

After a beat, Mother had courteously asked Uncle Brandon to show Lyanna how he skinned a boar. Father had smiled at that. Mother had urged Lyanna to hand over the knife to Uncle Brandon, and Uncle Brandon had shown her how, and Mother had urged her some more to look closer and look carefully, and Father had started talking of how the boar would make for a very delicious supper that night. 

Halfway through the whole thing, Lyanna had been so disgruntled she could skin a turd.

Lyanna’s most prominent image of Mother, though, was of Mother sewing and sewing and sewing. She sewed endlessly: to clothe their family against the cold or as treats to herself. Mother sewed for herself numerous gloves and handkerchiefs, all embroidered with a graceful and lacy “S,” for Sansa.

No thread was out of place in Mother’s sewing, no stitch strayed from a designed line. “I do not like lose ends,” Mother often said. “Do your stitches again, Lyanna.”

Lyanna often caught Mother sewing in a lot of places.

Mother sewed in the rookery as she waited for an urgent letter, with Lady Donella of House Manderly holding the spool of thread for her and Lady Sybelle of House Ryswell going over the gossip in the yards.

Mother sewed in the solar as she talked and shared jugs of ale with Father. Lyanna had caught her gently laughing as she sewed, her grey eyes shining as Father tucked winter roses behind her ears and with her net of silver and pearls. Father had been smiling too, singing in his funny off-key way about the “Rose of his heart.” Lyanna had swiftly backed out of the door before they saw her.

Mother sewed in the glass gardens as she instructed the gardeners on which new seeds she wished to be planted. Lady Donella still held the spool of thread for her, and Lady Sybelle had gossiped of the wager in the stables. 

When Father made his visits to the other Houses, Mother would always send him off with a kiss on his cheek and a bundle of gloves for the inhabitants of the castle to be visited. Father would kiss Mother on her lips, give her a winter rose – “A winter rose for the Rose” – before riding off.

“Would they like that?” Lyanna had wondered.

“Of course. The gloves are from their queen.” Mother had softly smiled. She had been sorting her old needles – the rusty, or the crooked, or the blunt needles – from her new ones. “The gloves will keep them warm, besides.”

On one such time, when Father was away with Uncle Brandon and Lyanna’s oldest brother Bran, the ironmen had descended on the nearby villages and sacked winter town.

Mother had had to hold Winterfell against the invasion, during which she had locked Lyanna in a secret chamber with some women and a few guardsmen. Barthogan and Jonnel had not been with her for they were locked in other chambers. 

Lyanna had been seven, and had cried a lot. She had soaked her direwolf pup’s fur with snot and tears.

After four days of complete isolation, the door to the chamber had opened with the news that Queen Sansa had managed to capture the ironman commander, the one named Greyjoy.

Lyanna vividly remembered that afternoon. The terrible smell of burnt stone and flesh and wood. The hundreds of Northmen howling for justice. Greyjoy dragged in chains before Mother as his fellow ironmen prisoners were pushed down on the snow to await their fate. And Mother, the queen in the North, standing tall beside the ironwood stump where criminals had lost their heads to Father’s greatsword Ice. 

“Reaver,” Mother had addressed Greyjoy, her voice mild so that those gathered around had to keep silent and strain to hear. 

Lyanna remembered how the silence had cascaded around them, wrathful and reverent and hungry. Lyanna had been standing between Barthogan and Jonnel, her brothers looking as weary as she had felt. Mother herself had been wearing an old gown beneath her furs, and dark grey shadows had been smudged under Mother’s eyes.

Mother’s eyes had scared Lyanna that day. 

Lyanna had grown up with her brothers under Mother’s stern frost-coloured eyes. Lyanna had grown up with a feeble assurance that Mother couldn’t be as cold as she seemed to be, if her eyes could shine warmly for Father.

But Mother’s eyes had scared her that afternoon, there near the ironwood stump, surrounded by the exhausted and mournful and furious faces of their people. Lyanna had never seen Mother’s eyes so hard and so cold. 

“You admit,” Mother had said to Greyjoy, “that you have given command to sack Northern homes on Northern lands and put Northern people to the sword?”

Greyjoy had only glared at Mother, and had spat near her feet. 

The howls of the Northmen had trampled on the silence at once: they had shouted for Greyjoy’s head, for his innards to be ripped out and strung for the gods. Jonnel had hissed beside Lyanna. Barthogan had raised his fists with a snarl, and Lyanna had scurried to Jonnel’s other side and tugged on his sleeve, more frightened than ever.

But Mother had only put her hand on Barthogan’s arm, which had greatly relieved Lyanna. Even at twelve, Barthogan would have gone to war for Mother without question.

Mother had said, “On your command, reaver, hundreds of my people have suffered. Yours are wicked words. Yours are wicked lips and tongue.” She had looked up from Greyjoy’s eyes long enough to command the guardsmen: “Bind him well. Hold his head.”

Cassel and five other guards had tightened Greyjoy’s chains. They had gripped at Greyjoy’s head.

Then, calmly, Mother had produced her old rusty needle from her handkerchief and proceeded to sew together Greyjoy’s lips.

*

After a long silence, Mother asked, “Have you finished praying to the old gods?”

Lyanna nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

She had prayed for the safe return of Father, and Uncle Brandon, and Bran and Barthogan. Lyanna dared not think of what would happen if they didn’t return. It would be devastating, and Bran’s son Cregard was only a babe and no fit to be king.

Mother gave her a brief nod. Lyanna could see in Mother’s pale lips that she was anxious as well. 

A pause, then Mother stepped closer. Her hand was stiff as she brushed away a red weirwood leaf from Lyanna’s furs and tucked a stray dark lock behind Lyanna’s ear. “I have always wanted a daughter.”

Lyanna managed a smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

Mother said nothing. She was already looking away. She withdrew her hand and turned back to the long melancholy face of the weirwood. From Mother’s other hand peeked the winter rose Father had given her that morning, for she loved roses and she was Father’s Rose.

Mother was silent for so long that Lyanna wondered if Mother even heard what Lyanna had said. 

And then, her eyes still on the blood-red sap creeping down the snow-white trunk, Mother murmured, “Something must be done with the king’s brother.”

 

**II.**

“Your mother the queen,” chattered Lady Aregelle, “is quite an ambitious woman. Did you know that Her Grace once had it in her head to marry one of her sons to the Vale king’s daughter? Well, now that king is dead, and so is his daughter, and so Queen Sansa is now making noises for an alliance with one of those barbarian river kings. Did you know that, princess?”

From her sprawl on the rug, Lyanna munched on her wolfberry and said, “No.”

Lady Aregelle cackled. Her silver knitting needles clicked and clicked, clicked and clicked, just beneath her cackle, so that it all sounded like a song to Lyanna.

Since she was an old person, Lady Aregelle had the most frank laughter in Winterfell and she had the most stories. Naturally, Lyanna tended to visit her tower room. There Lady Aregelle would always be sitting near the fire, with a lamp on her other side, mumbling to herself and squinting at her knitting.

“I remember your grandmother, princess.” Lady Aregelle’s needles clicked busily. “Queen Jonelle. From House Glover, she was. Restless. Went raiding south one winter. The southron dread those raids, did you know, just as we Northmen dread the winters. Her Grace rode south and never came back. Your father was only a boy of ten, and King Artos’ only child.”

Lady Aregelle paused. She peered down at Lyanna with faded grey eyes on a long craggy face.

It was a Stark face, Lyanna knew, though Lady Aregelle was not a Stark in name. She was not really a lady: she was only a bastard daughter of a Stark prince on a candle maker. But Lady Aregelle had been King Artos’ lover longer than Queen Jonelle had been King Artos’ queen, and so she was called Lady Aregelle.

“I didn’t fall into King Artos’ bed before his queen rode south, let me tell you.” Lady Aregelle prodded the black ball of yarn with her toe, and resumed her knitting.

“What’s that you’re knitting, my lady?” Lyanna finished her fruit and licked her fingers.

“Why, a wrap of course. For my old bones. What colour goes well with this, do you think, Your Grace?”

Lyanna surveyed the knitted shawl around Lady Aregelle’s shoulders now, black lined with silvery grey. “Blue is good. Perhaps white. Perhaps green.”

“Queen Sansa prefers dark green with her greys and whites,” Lady Aregelle mused. “Might be that blue looks good with this dowdy old thing.”

“It does,” agreed Lyanna. She started to paint with rose pigments on the coarse canvas cloth she had brought up with her. “But my lady was telling me a story.”

Lady Aregelle chortled. “I used to sew woolen sheets with Poole’s wife. And dye the woolens too, but I did that with the other washerwomen. Red colours were costly, and so were yellows and oranges. How cheery it was to dye the woolens with them bright colours. It was a bit better than my mother’s lot in life, the gods bless her good soul.”

The black ball of yarn turned and turned on the rug beside Lyanna. 

Dimly, Lyanna could remember a song about Lady Aregelle “swathed in yellow.” It went on with Lady Aregelle’s “cheeks warm with the king’s kisses”, and “fingers warm with the king’s rings,” and her “smile warm and bright” like the “sun gracing the North.” But it was a very old song, and Mother didn’t like it.

“I should’ve been named Branda,” Lady Aregelle was saying, “but she not quite dared. Oh no. She was a candle maker. Anne. Born there outside the castle gates, in winter town. She used to say that them smallfolk have a saying. The Kings of Winter never die, they say. Oh no. The Kings of Winter only grow as old as they can until the night, and then come morning they turn young again. But they are always there, with their greatsword and their direwolf. They are always there. The Stark kings are as eternal as their stronghold Winterfell, they say. And so my mother never quite dared to name me after Brandon the Builder. My father, he was a Stark, he gave me a suitably fancy Stark name: Aregelle.”

Lyanna had long stopped dipping and swirling her pigments on the canvas, intently listening to Lady Aregelle’s tale.

“But I,” continued Lady Aregelle, “I named my son Brandon. Have I not the Stark blood in me to name him so? More than a dozen years younger than King Torrhen, he is. But King Artos’ sister never forgave me. And so her daughter Queen Sansa never forgave me, too.”

Lady Aregelle slowly shook her head as her needles clicked. “King Torrhen had no mother but Brandon has one. Twice the Stark blood in my Brandon, too, but alas not the Stark name.”

Lyanna tilted her head. “So if Mother’s mother is a Stark princess – does that make me twice a Stark as well?”

“I reckon it does,” said Lady Aregelle. “Princess Arsa, that one’s a she-wolf. She insisted on the match. They needn’t have worried, though.”

Lady Aregelle did not raise her faded grey eyes from her knitting, but Lyanna caught the subtle shift of Lady Aregelle’s wrinkled eyelids, the subtle and sly glance at Lyanna’s way. “I did not raise Brandon to be a kinslayer. The wolves who murder their pack are fools.”

 

**III.**

The old gods answered Lyanna’s prayers. 

One evening when the wind had stilled and only a dark grey light cast frilled shadows across the snow, the banners of Father came cresting over a distant hill.

Lyanna and Jonnel scrambled to a tower window. Behind them peeked Barbrey with Cregard cooing in her arms. But Mother had immediately hurried down from the solar.

Father had come home.

Even Uncle Brandon, and Bran and Barthogan.

It soon became apparent that everyone who had ridden south managed to come home. 

“My king,” Mother breathed, fiercely embracing Father in the entrance hall, “my love.”

Jonnel was already grinning at Mother and Father, and he beamed at Lyanna and squeezed her hand. 

But there was a wry twist to Uncle Brandon’s mouth which Lyanna did not understand. 

“My love.” Father embraced Mother as well, pressing his dark whiskers and beard against her dark hair for several heartbeats. But then he gently disentangled himself, took her hands in his, and murmured, “I am no longer a king, I am afraid.”

Father told a long tale that night. He had already started telling the tale even before Uncle Brandon and Jonnel finished assisting him out of his furs and leathers.

A tale of dragons, and of Targaryens, one brother and two sisters, and a field of fire during which the vast armies of the Lannister and Gardener kings have perished. Of Uncle Brandon offering to kill the dragons in the night. Of Queen Jonelle riding south and never coming home. Of the rushing waters of a great river, and of Father laying down his bronze and iron crown at the feet of Aegon Targaryen, of going down on his knee to ensure that no league of Northern land burned. Of the invader demanding no Northern swords to be surrendered to him.

“Targaryen pulled me up to my feet,” Father was saying. His eyes were dull, and his fingers were listless around his cup of mulled wine. “And he named me Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North.”

Mother had her face turned away, her brow smooth and her lips an unreadable line, even as she clutched at Father’s other hand.

The lamps were lighted in the solar, but their shadows were drooping across the tapestries and the rugs. 

Bran was stood by a window, his forehead leaning against the wall, silent for the last few hours. Barthogan was out with Uncle Brandon, the both of them simmering with rage. Jonnel kept filling Father’s cup with a helpless look in his eyes, and Lyanna could only stand in a corner, unremarkable amongst the drooping shadows, wringing her sleeves.

“Every moment of it, I loathed,” Father said. “I loathed it as much as Brandon did. Thousands of years as kings in the North – and they an unremarkable minor House from ruined Valyria. How I _loathed_ it.”

Father took a breath. It rattled. His hand with the cup trembled. “But I cannot let thousands of Northmen die. Not after what I heard of the Field of Fire. Winter is coming. I cannot let my fields and smallfolk burn. We need all the men we could spare. Winter is coming.”


	2. Chapter 2

**IV.**

Lyanna had a long thin stick in hand, immensely enjoying herself as she drew a map on the snow and revelling in the relative quiet of the yard in front of the Guest House, when someone called to her.

Lyanna scowled up from beneath her hat.

Uncle Brandon was drawing near her with a smile. He was always smiling like his mother. But unlike his mother whose smiles were wide enough to dimple her cheeks, unlike his mother who always beams, Uncle Brandon’s smiles only reminded Lyanna of pale sunlight on snow.

“I’ve never met a grumpier princess,” remarked Uncle Brandon.

He stopped near enough so he could peer interestedly at her drawing on the snow.

Uncle Brandon probably hadn’t met a lot of princesses, Lyanna thought grumpily.

Lyanna continued scowling. She was really looking forward to spending time with herself. Talking with a lot of people was positively exhausting. It always made her fidget and, though it occurred less and less over the years, stutter with nerves.

Uncle Brandon lifted his eyes from the marks on the snow, and smiled at Lyanna who was still squatting by the map.

“What is this about, then?”

Lyanna cleared her throat. She pointed a gloved finger to the circle drawn in the centre, sprinkled red with rose pigments. “It’s the godswood. A map. For games.”

She and Jonnel used to play a lot of games in the godswood. Often they had pretended to be having adventures. Jonnel had said that he would go travelling one day.

“Is it?” Uncle Brandon tilted his head. “I thought it was an embroidery pattern.”

Lyanna scowled even more.

Uncle Brandon burst out laughing. Still laughing, he plopped himself down on the snow beside Lyanna, gathering his furs around him and huddling in them. Finally he brushed aside his dark hair from his eyes and said, “I was only jesting. Well, a little. It really did look like an embroidery pattern to me. Only, well, it is you, Your Grace, so –”

“I know,” Lyanna grumped, and added, “Am I still ‘Your Grace’?”

It was quite alarming, how Uncle Brandon’s smile completely dimmed. Something fierce and cold glinted in his eyes. He had the same shade of grey eyes as Mother, but Lyanna kept that observation to herself.

He looked away from Lyanna and down at her drawing.

“I have been saying it for thousands of years,” said Uncle Brandon. “It’s not easy to do away with it after only a few nights.”

Lyanna sadly drew another tree with her stick.

Uncle Brandon watched her draw.

Lyanna had long decided that she didn’t mind Uncle Brandon’s company. He was always helping her skin boars, or helping her stay on saddle and not disgrace herself if her horse suddenly decided to gallop. And at one time, at Mother’s encouraging, Uncle Brandon had tried to teach Lyanna how to shoot arrows since he was the best archer in Winterfell.

“Lord and Lady Stark have been looking for you, my lady. Where have you been all morning?”

Lyanna pulled off her left glove with her teeth, and stuck her hand in her pigment pouch. Muffled, she said, “I walked in the crypts. Then I went here to draw.”

“What are those red colours for?” Uncle Brandon put his chin on his hand. “And have you found anything of interest in the crypts? I’ve never visited, you see.”

Lyanna stared at him. “Never?”

Uncle Brandon’s smile was wry. “Aye. Not once.”

Thirty years seemed like a long, long time to Lyanna. She couldn’t understand why he never visited, though: Uncle Brandon still had twice the Stark blood. Hesitating, she told him as much.

“Ah, well,” was what Uncle Brandon said, his smile crooked. “A Snow is a Snow, and I don’t like brooding about it. Besides there is a lot to mind in my brother’s council chamber. My mother, though, she’s made of different stuff. She still brings my father flowers.”

Lyanna said nothing. She added more colours to her drawing.

Down there in the crypts was a heavy coldness and an even heavier silence. She had gone down there to walk amongst the Kings of Winter, with their swords across their laps and their direwolves at the shadows of their thrones. And as she walked Lyanna had felt like the whole of Winterfell was a massive tree, and down there in the crypts with the Kings of Winter, she had been wending her way amongst an eternity of roots.

She and her brothers had had direwolf pups, too, like those kings. Lyanna had named hers Arrana, and had felt sad for their pups as she walked in the crypts.

The direwolves had been looking peaky, and a lot of them had got ill. The first of those who had got ill was the old direwolf Lady Aregelle had inherited from her father. And afterwards, Father had had to free the whole pack.

“It’d be best if they’re not cooped in here with us,” Father had said as Lyanna sobbed and sobbed. “Do not be sad, Lyanna. They can be free to roam around and get air and food and exercise, and their health will improve.”

Lyanna wondered what her direwolf was eating right now.

“But we really must be getting back, Your Grace,” Uncle Brandon was saying. He swiftly got to his feet and offered Lyanna a hand. “There’s thick mushroom soup to be served, and roast partridge.”

She was suddenly hungry, and suddenly gloomy at the thought of her direwolf, but Lyanna still noted that Uncle Brandon had lapsed into calling her a princess again. She took his hand, and through a flurry of snowy wind he smiled at her.

Being an unremarkable princess sounded like such a wretched fate, Lyanna reflected. Perhaps being an unremarkable lady could be more manageable.

 

**V.**

Lyanna was six when Father threw her into a pool.

It was the summer day when her family had gone into the pools fed by hot springs near the Guest House, with baskets of cream cake and wolfberries and jugs of ale and spiced wine.

The lot of them had been enjoying themselves floating in the waters, and Lyanna had been enjoying herself hiding behind a mossy rock, when Father suddenly appeared in front of her and asked her why she was hiding.

Lyanna mumbled that she was afraid of swimming.

Father coaxed her out and took her hand, and they walked back to where Bran and Barthogan had been trying to dunk each other in the water, and then before Lyanna knew what was happening Father had scooped her up and tossed her into the pool.

There were lots of bubbles. Swirling bubbles. A confusion of water gulping down her screams and her flailing arms and legs. A wild banging in Lyanna’s chest.

Lyanna was sure she gulped a lot of water.

But Lyanna managed to break though the surface with a shrieky gasp.

“Well now,” Father told her genially, scooping her back up from the pool. Lyanna was shaking and gasping, and Father soothingly rubbed her back. “That was very brave of you. You swam! Swimming and pools, psh, nothing in the face of a brave princess. A brave princess, isn’t she, Sansa?”

Lyanna didn’t feel brave, though. She only felt shivery, and like she should be very careful the next time she took Father’s hand.

Mother only said, “Do wrap her in a warm cloth, Torrhen. She’s still shivering.”

With Lyanna still at his hip, Father ambled towards their baskets snug amongst the strewn cloaks and furs. “Do you know, my dear, that we all of us were born swimming? Yes, we swam in our mothers. I should think that we still knew of no fear or no bravery then. We only swam.”

Father picked out a cloak from a pile and wrapped Lyanna with it. “There we go. Warm enough, isn’t it?”

Lyanna feebly nodded. Father paused by the baskets, then lifted a jug of ale and carefully tipped the mouth of it to Lyanna’s lips.

“I would’ve been a maester had circumstances permitted it. Alas. Swimming, swimming. But then – that’s rather unkind to say now, isn’t it. Ah, that’s enough ale, I should think, my dear -”

“Your Grace!”

Father was sufficiently distracted by Van Poole, the steward, so Lyanna was able to hold on to the jug.

“Begging pardon, Your Grace,” Poole wheezed, “but my lord Brandon said to remind Your Grace of the matter with Lord Bolton. Lord Bolton’s retinue will be arriving around dusk, Your Grace.”

Father’s broad chest rumbled with his rough exhale. “The Others _take_ Bolton. Gods be good. Of course that man’s still at it. I almost forgot, it’s been, what, a year already?” He distractedly tugged away the jug from Lyanna. “Of course, of course. Tell Brandon I will meet him shortly. He never forgets, my brother. Even the littlest details.”

*

Lyanna and Uncle Brandon were led to the solar, where thick mushroom soup and roast partridge were indeed served. Afterwards when the copper plates were cleared away and the wolfberries and bowls of cream were brought in, Mother, as usual, did Lyanna the honour of asking Lyanna to pour the wine for her.

Today it was the pale amber wine from Pentos, brought from White Harbor three moons ago with saffron and persimmon, a rainbow of dye pigments, and three rolls apiece of silk and Myrish lace.

“The reply has arrived whilst we were having soup,” Father was saying.

Mother indicated for Lyanna to stop pouring. “Indeed?”

She sounded so gentle, thought Lyanna, even though the tips of her fingers went shockingly white against her crystal cup.

Father paused, and then: “It appears that Rhaenys Targaryen is also married to her brother.”

Lyanna caught Uncle Brandon glancing at Barthogan, who forcefully put down his cup on the table. Poor Barthogan. He could’ve been good-brother to Aegon Targaryen.

Mother raised her cup to her lips. “Fools,” she murmured, as if she were remarking on the crispness of the wine. “Monstrous fools.”

“Sansa.” Father’s voice was brusque. He had been getting brusque ever since he came home.

“They come barging in,” Mother went on, “and they took no care to settle roots. I call that foolish.”

“They can always beget a child for one of ours,” said Father. “And they do have dragons.”

“And if the rest of us have somehow managed to acquire winged fire-breathing beasts of our own?” Mother’s voice was turning less soft. “Will they agree to the match with Barthogan, then?”

“Sansa –”

“Or shall we need to kill their beasts so that we could all properly meet on the field? Steel to steel? Skill to skill? I hear some fields are lovely and level –”

“Sansa!” Father shouted.

The solar seemed to draw a collective breath.

Father had never lost his temper before. Father had never shouted at Mother before. The father Lyanna knew disliked conflict and often strove for accord. Even Father’s face swiftly drooped, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.

A stiff smile had somehow appeared on Mother’s face. “Forgive me, my king. I get carried away, sometimes.”

Father stared at Mother.

Bran was gravely getting to his feet. “May I be excused, Father? Mother?”

Jonnel swiftly followed his example, and Barthogan hesitantly pushed himself up. Uncle Brandon was also preparing to follow them.

Mother tilted her head at Lyanna’s direction to say, “Another cup, if you would,” at the same time that Father said, “Yes, you may. Not you, Brandon. You may stay.”

Uncle Brandon resumed his seat down the table whilst the door closed on Lyanna’s brothers.

Lyanna decided that she liked watching the pale amber wine through Mother’s special crystal cup. The wine gleamed a frosted amber. She wondered if hard candied fruit looked like that.

Father’s voice cut through Lyanna’s musings. “Now, Brandon.” It was so obvious Father was forcing himself to be as gentle-sounding as Mother, only his attempt grated on Lyanna’s ears. It sounded like he was doing it for the first time, and without Mother’s apparent effortlessness. “I wonder if you could tell Lady Stark that I am, indeed, no longer king.”

There was a dreadful, frozen beat when Mother caught Uncle Brandon’s eye and it seemed to Lyanna like they had finally found something they agreed on and were utterly bemused at the fact.

Mother snapped out of it. She held out her cup for Lyanna again. But the jug had gone empty, so Lyanna silently hurried to the small table of jugs by a window.

“I was present during the negotiations, my lady,” Uncle Brandon said at last. “Lord Stark did indeed swear fealty to Aegon Targaryen on the banks of the Trident.”

There was a clutter of jugs. Lyanna quickly peered and sniffed at each one.

“I heard of that,” Mother said, lightly. “But I haven’t heard you tell of your suggestion. It was the talk the other day in the Guards Hall. Something about sharpened weirwood arrows?”

“Sansa,” Father gritted out. “What – do – you – want.”

“To talk to your brother. I wish to hear his tale, Torrhen.”

Father let out a short laugh. “Since when?”

Lyanna stood stricken by the jugs. She heard the rustle of Mother’s skirts.

“I see my conversation is unwanted at this moment.”

Before Lyanna could fully spin around, Mother was already stepping out of the door and taking her empty crystal cup with her.

“And you?” Father shot at Uncle Brandon. “Go, if you must. Go, then.”

Uncle Brandon sighed. His chair creaked when he stood, and then he was approaching the head of the table and somberly pouring mulled wine for Father.

Father drank his cup in furious silence.

In silence, Uncle Brandon stood by his side like always.

Lyanna was tucked by the window and the table full of useless jugs, silent and observing. Neither her father nor her uncle remarked upon her presence for quite some time, until Father’s jug emptied and Uncle Brandon was startled to find Lyanna standing there.

 

**VI.**

“What about my father?” Lyanna asked Lady Aregelle. “Tell me about my father, please, my lady.”

Lady Aregelle was almost finished knitting her black shawl.

Lyanna was almost finished with her colours on the coarse canvas. It was a floor map of Lady Aregelle’s tower room, with gloopy shapes for the ball of black yarn and wolfberries and Lady Aregelle and Mother and a candle maker and Uncle Brandon.

Lady Aregelle creakily leaned across her chair and fetched the blue ball of yarn.

“Your father the king.” Lady Aregelle fiddled with the blue thread and her needles. She squinted down at the shawl.

“A mighty friendly lad, that’s your father, princess. He was always asking for family excursions, and when he did he included me in his invitations. Fine way of speeches, too, he has that. Might be those books of his. And he was always wanting us all to dine together in the solar and he would chatter on about sewing, and how funny that was.” Lady Aregelle chortled. “I reckon he was trying to make me and his sister get along, but the Princess Arsa disliked sewing.”

Lyanna briefly marvelled at Mother’s love for sewing.

There was a fond smile on Lady Aregelle’s lips. “Your father has always called me ‘my lady.’ And when I gave birth to Brandon, he visited me with flowers and called my son ‘brother.’ He liked taking Brandon hunting or riding, that he did, the gods bless him.”

Lyanna added a blob of colour on the canvas, for Father.

“What’s that you have there, princess?” Lady Aregelle asked.

“Nothing.”

Lady Aregelle gave Lyanna’s canvas her squinty-eyed consideration. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Looks something like a tapestry.”

“It’s not,” Lyanna grumbled.

“Well.” Lady Aregelle returned to her knitting. “That one time your father ordered tapestries and some books from the East, and those books, he kept saying they have fine drawings and such. But there was a problem in one of the ports, I can’t recall what. And then there was Lord Bolton pestering him about tavern taxes. Now, your father, he never loses his temper. When he’s angry he turns sullen and broods about the place. He was exchanging lots of letters with Lord Bolton that day, even during supper. I recall it was supper, there was cheese and elk on the table. And then Poole comes in with the news about the trouble with them ports and your father starts worrying about the books with fine drawings, and when Poole says that they had to pay more coins or the books will be lost, well. Your father, he smashes the plates. The cheese comes bouncing on the floor.”

Lyanna was transfixed. She could barely believe it. “And then?”

Lady Aregelle counted blue triangles on her black shawl. “And then he just sits there, silent, mind. No nothing. He just stares at the letter for Lord Bolton, and then Poole comes picking up the cheese. A shame, that was. But your father dislikes cheese, anyway.”

 

**VII.**

Mother disliked the new taxes for the Targaryens.

“Do ask them,” Lyanna heard her tell Van Poole, in her soft melodious voice, “if they have ever experienced winter. Winter is coming. We cannot afford to send them any sort of quantity of grain, and right now we need the workers for ourselves. Shelters need strengthening. Firewood need chopping. Blankets need sewing. Shovels need mending. They need to set another tax, or not at all.”

“M – my lady –”

The cold morning light touched on the emeralds on Mother’s ears, and on the swift clench of muscles on her jaw. She held out her cup for Lyanna.

“We cannot actually, er,” said Poole, “we cannot actually tell them that, Y – my lady.”

Mother only blinked. “Why ever not.” She reached for the quill and pulled a piece of parchment towards her. “Kings who have no time to hear their people have no time sitting on thrones.”

 

**VIII.**

They were waiting for the white raven with its news that winter had come, but what came one crisp morning was a letter from Rhaenys Targaryen bearing marriage negotiations.

For the first time in Lyanna’s life, Mother raged.

“No. No, I refuse. Take this rubbish out of my sight.” Mother hurled her cup to the floor, knocking aside the jug Lyanna was tipping over it, and in the same movement she flung away the letter and would have stomped on it had Father not grabbed her arm.

She stabbed a finger at Father. “We agreed – we agreed that Lyanna will soon marry your brother. As soon as she came of age. We agreed. We _agreed_ on the match between their issue and Cregard. Have you forgot about it?”

Lyanna faltered. “M – Mother. You don’t mean –”

Mother did not notice her. “We need Lyanna to marry your brother, Torrhen. You know we do.” Mother grasped at his shoulders. “I refuse this. Refuse it. Taking your crown was enough.”

Father heaved a sigh. “We will have another chance when they beget a child of their own. And the letter. It says the Lord Arryn, does it not? The boy Ronnel Arryn. The last king of the Mountain and the Vale. Does that sound not deserving enough of Lyanna?”

“We _need_ to secure House Stark.” Mother’s hands on Father’s shoulders curled into fists.

But of course, Lyanna numbly realised. Mother did not like lose ends. And Mother had always wanted a daughter.

Neither Bran nor Barthogan looked surprised, Lyanna thought as she slowly leaned against the table and regarded her family in a daze. They knew about that.

“Father,” Bran said, and even his usually level voice had an urgent tinge to it, “please consider. This is almost a slight to our House.”

“I know what Rhaenys Targaryen is doing,” Father said quietly. He was still looking at Mother. “She’s binding the realms together. We will have our chance.”

Barthogan was as angry as Mother. “Binding the realms. Does that mean that House Stark will gain House Arryn as ally against them, Father?”

Father flicked an undiscernible grey look at Barthogan.

“We are not their lap dogs,” Mother hissed. Her eyes were a blazing grey, and she was snarling. The wool of Father’s tunic crumpled in her clawed hands. She almost looked like a stranger to Lyanna.

“They are kings now,” Father said, each word sounding like a tooth pulled, “and we the lords of Winterfell, their vassals. But I promise you, we will have our chance. Sansa, please. Please do not be as rash as Brandon.”

Mother snatched away her hands from Father as if she had been burned. She was breathing heavily. They all knew that Father had meant Uncle Brandon: he always called Lyanna’s eldest brother Bran.

In the silence, Lyanna started trembling.

And then Mother said, in a low voice, “It is the Lord of Winterfell who knelt. I, the queen in the North, did not.”

“Mother,” gasped Bran.

The air seemed to tremble with Lyanna.

“I cannot take it if you agreed, Torrhen,” continued Mother, still in that low stranger’s voice. “No, I will not take it. I will leave.”

Lyanna clapped a hand over her sob. Barthogan darted across the solar and grasped at Mother’s arm. “Mother! Mother, please!”

This near, Lyanna could see the terrible sight of Father’s face crumpling. “Sansa.” His voice was hoarse.

Bran was also immediately by Mother’s side. “Mother, I am sure we can negotiate with them on the matter. It is not yet final, Mother.”

They were all huddled so close, there on the solar warmed by hot springs and the hearth, but Lyanna could only feel a cold stone sinking in her gut.

*

For almost half a year ravens flew back and forth, back and forth, between Father and Rhaenys Targaryen and their respective maesters.

In the end, Father still agreed to marry off Lyanna to the Lord of the Eyrie.

Lyanna had been crying as she helped Mother prepare to leave, when Father burst into Mother’s rooms with wild eyes.

“Sansa!” Father gasped out, falling to his knees, his arms clamping around Mother’s waist. “Sansa, no. I had to. I had to, you have to understand. _No_.”

Mother said nothing. Her arms were limp on her sides, but her lower lip trembled. She did not touch Father.

“Sansa, please.” It was then that Lyanna realised with a dreadful jolt that Father was in tears. “My love, please. We can still plan something else. Please. Please do not leave me. Sansa.”

Clumsily, numbly, Lyanna backed out of the bedchamber, stumbling a little as she went. There was a crashing, swooping roar in her ears. The ground was roiling, and a fear was threatening to choke her. And Mother was telling Father, “I love you. Please do not kneel for me.”

Lyanna’s unsteady legs got her no farther than Mother’s outer chamber when she heard a stagger in the next room.

“No, you don’t love me,” Father spit out, his voice climbing. “I know now, you do not love me –”

“Don’t,” Mother snapped.

Father was now shouting his accusation. “You’ve never loved me, I see it now –”

“Lies,” Mother cut him off, sharp as an iron sword. “Lies, lies, lies. A _liar_.”

Lyanna could see their shadows on the tapestry. Father was on his feet now, and the both of them were so distant from each other. Father never shouted, and Mother was always gentle, and Father always called Mother the Rose of his heart, and though Mother seemed cold to Lyanna and her brothers she was always warm and shining for Father –

Shouting. Shouts, shouts, shouts came thundering from the bedchamber. Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't recognise the voices, and their shouting hurt her ears.

“Up you get,” murmured a voice close by, and Lyanna looked up to see Barbrey crouching by her. Mousy sedate Barbrey. But someone whose grip on Lyanna’s elbow was steady and firm. “Up you get, lass. Come on. Let’s step out, come on.”

Shrunken against the wall, and through her fear and confusion, Lyanna still heard herself mumbling, “No. I have to help Mother prepare.”

*

Mother would not let Barthogan go with her.

And when he asked which southron realm she would go to, Mother said, “My companions and I will sail east. Across the narrow sea, where the dragons perished.”

 

**IX.**

Perhaps they were still thinking that it was all a nightmare, that Mother wouldn’t really leave. It sounded so ridiculous.

Mother’s packs of clothes and provisions were already prepared, but of course Mother wouldn’t really leave. A hundred or two Northmen, calling themselves the Winter Rose’s companions, had come to declare that they too rejected Father’s bending of the knee and would leave with Mother – but of course Mother wouldn’t really leave.

It took the morning when Lyanna woke up and found Mother in the yard, having her horse saddled, when the reality of it came punching down on them.

When Lyanna skidded into the entrance hall of the Great Keep, Barthogan was snarling, “Tell her to stay! Father, what is keeping you? Tell Mother to stay! Go after the queen. Father! Go after your lady wife!”

Father only looked at him with such dull and shadowed eyes before wordlessly turning away.

Lyanna saw the split moment of hurt in Barthogan before he turned even angrier. “Father, what are you doing? Why aren’t you doing anything? _Mother is leaving._ ”

“ _Not_ another word,” Uncle Brandon snarled back, from Father’s side.

Barthogan ignored him. He shouted after Father. “Why aren’t you doing anything to clean your mess –”

Father whirled around. His eyes were hard and cold and furious, and Lyanna almost didn’t recognise him. “Don’t you dare!” he blazed. “Don’t you dare, boy! I worked to keep this family together all my life. All my life! Do you hear me? All my life! You do not know how I much tried! And you dare –”

Father started choking on his words. He kept on choking, spluttering, swaying on his feet, and his face was turning into an odd shade.

Bran had wrenched away Barthogan by the sleeve, and Uncle Brandon was supporting Father and yelling for the maester, and Jonnel was scampering for the servants and the maester, and with a sudden clarity Lyanna knew where she had to go.

Mother’s train was already just beyond the castle gates.

Lyanna sprinted after them.

The wind howled in Lyanna’s ears and clawed at Lyanna’s cheeks. But she pumped as fast as her heavy furs allowed her. Her boots caught in her furs. Lyanna came sprawling across the snow. Her cheek hit the rough snow, but she barely felt the sting. Wheezing, she flailed her arms and legs and scrambled out of her furs, and charged after Mother.

Lyanna raced across the snow clad only in her grey gown.

There were twin pains lancing down Lyanna’s sides. Her chest was in flames. There was the smell of blood on her face, and on the edges of her eyes were her frozen tears.

But she still dug her feet harder, tore across the snow faster.

Lyanna tried to call out for Mother, but taking breaths hurt. She seemed to have left her voice back at Winterfell.

The figures of Mother’s train were receding, dark and grey with furs, dotted with the blue of winter roses, fast approaching where Lyanna could not reach. Lyanna could not keep up.

Even this she couldn’t do. She was truly unremarkable.

Lyanna found her voice, and it was loud. “Mother! No! Mother!”

The train did not stop receding.

Lyanna staggered down on the snow.

Short, thin gasps.

Her hands were trembling. Her heart was being cleaved out from her chest.

She should get home before her ears froze and fell off. Was Winterfell still home? Did stone and snow make for a home?

If only Father were craftier in negotiations, if only Mother knew how to meet Father halfway. If only Lyanna knew who to blame. Father didn’t look like a king, and Mother not a queen, when their shadows had stood so far apart like strangers and growled at each other.

Father was not a king. Mother was not a queen. Lyanna’s mind was whirling. They were not the shining beautiful king and queen after all, whose frowns had made Lyanna feel unremarkable and whose pride she had sought out like Starks sought the weirwood. They made mistakes, after all, just like Lyanna did.

Helplessly she stared at the figures in the distance.

Then she screamed. Lyanna didn’t know if it was screaming or sobbing she was doing, but it sounded nothing like herself. Lyanna was screaming, sobbing, howling to the wintry air.

Through her screaming sobs, she somehow ended up stumbling back to Winterfell and right into the godswood.

Here, at least, the gods heard every Stark or Snow who visited. Even the unremarkable ones.

Lyanna collapsed against the weirwood. Her cold tears stung her bloodied cheek.

“Strike them down!” Lyanna howled to the gods. The old gods, the gods of her mother and father, and the kings and queens of winter before them now residing in an eternity of roots beneath Winterfell. “I pray you strike them down. May Aegon Targaryen’s House _never take root_ in these realms. _Never ever ever_.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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